My Religion Is Loving What You Make

Sometimes I think the only real religion I’ve ever had is being a fan of people. Not in a distant, pedestal-way. Not the kind where you're screaming from the front row and they don't know your name. I mean the everyday kind of devotion. The kind that lives in my chest and my group chats and my browser tabs. The kind that makes my heart thump when someone I love makes something so good I want to throw my phone across the room.

I’m a fan. That’s it. That’s the secret. That’s what keeps me soft. That’s what keeps me alive.

There are people I’ve been friends with for years—people I met when we were people with very big dreams and not much to show for them (yet), showing each other scraps of things late at night, reading bad drafts aloud like they were spells. I’ve watched them become. I’ve watched them risk it. I’ve watched them say yes to the wrong things and no to the right ones and still make something real—something that blew me open.

I’ve seen a friend perform a song that made me forget how to breathe. I’ve read a line in a friend’s script/chapter/essay that made me want to scream into a towel. I’ve seen someone I love act in something that made me cry—not because I was proud (I was), but because they made me feel. Like anyone could’ve played that role, but no one else would’ve made me feel like that.

And then, the other kind. The magic trick kind. The people I was a fan of before I got to know them. Like AG.

AG’s music kept me company in so many moods, so many phases. In the background while I got dressed. In my headphones during long, necessary walks I didn’t want to take. In the car, screaming lyrics into the steering wheel, possessed. Her songs made me feel like someone understood—like someone had built a room inside a song and left the door unlocked for me. I was just a fan. A regular, anonymous fan. And then—somehow—magic happened.

We were brought together by another person I’m a fan of, the great connector that is Georgia. Because apparently the universe likes to double down. One friend leads to another. One piece of art folds into a life, and then a real human walks out of it. And suddenly AG wasn’t just a voice in my earbuds, she was a kindred spirit. We share rants and confessions and book recommendations and art. We talk about the mess. We make each other laugh. And even in friendship, that fan feeling hasn’t gone away—it’s only grown stronger.

She has an album coming out in September. She sent it to me early. A privilege doesn’t even begin to cover it. It felt sacred. Like I had been handed a map to a place no one else knew existed yet. I played it all the way through, alone, and it felt like touching the edge of something holy. I sat there crying in a sweatshirt I’ve had for too long, thinking: I used to be just a fan of this person. And now I know her. And now I love her. And now I’m even more of a fan.

It breaks my brain a little. The intimacy of it. The way friendship doesn’t dull admiration—it sharpens it. Makes it land harder. Knowing how hard they worked. Knowing what almost didn’t get finished. Knowing what nearly broke them. And still—they made it. And it’s good. It’s so good. Good enough to make you believe in something again. Good enough to startle you out of your numbness. Good enough to feel like a secret—and also like something you want to scream from the rooftops.

I don’t understand people who are too cool to be excited. I don’t trust that kind of distance. I don’t believe in being chill when someone you love makes something beautiful. I want to gush. I want to scream. I want to send them 19 texts in a row. I want to tell everyone I know: Look at what she made. Look at what he wrote. Listen to this. Read this. Watch this. You don’t understand. This is everything.

Being a fan of your friends is a wild, uncontainable kind of joy. It’s not strategic. It’s not polite. It’s not “support.” It’s obsession. It’s awe. It’s watching someone you love grow bigger than the room, and feeling lucky just to be near it.

It’s holy. I mean that. It’s the closest thing to spiritual I’ve got. To witness someone’s art, and then get to turn around and talk shit with them in sweatpants? That’s the miracle.

I don’t think I’ll ever stop being stunned by it.
And I hope I never, ever get used to it.

This is all to say that AG—aka Clover County—has a song out today: “Virginia Slim.” I’ve been singing it to myself for months now, and I’m so happy the rest of the world finally gets to hear it. It’s gorgeous and sharp and so her. Go listen!

Also, my insanely talented friend Molly has a reading of their latest play on August 29 in LA. If you’re in town, you should go. It’s indescribable, as are most things to do with Molly and their particular brand of genius.

modern day penpals